


when the saints go marching in

by lethargicProfessor



Series: tintype afterimage [6]
Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 17:32:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14360241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lethargicProfessor/pseuds/lethargicProfessor
Summary: You must fight them,it said, and the rage burned all the while.They have destroyed you. They mock you. You must never forgive.





	when the saints go marching in

It started with a headache.

It pricked at the back of his neck, turning into a pulsing monster of a thing at the front of his skull, the pressure in his forehead making it hard to breathe.

He worked through it, borrowing a wide-brimmed hat from Rene down the street to shield him from the sun, and sighed in relief when the pain went away on its own.

The next day, Skin woke to blood on his sheets.

An accident, probably. An injury from the shipyard he hadn’t noticed. A quick once-over in the waning light of his last candle showed that, indeed, there was a welt across his left wrist, blood dried across his arm.

He wrapped it and returned to work, careful with the hooks in his hands and the tools of those around him. The headache was back, but manageable. Alcee pressed some pills into his hand without the manager catching them, and it helped.

Skin slipped the last of his money for the week into Alcee’s coat pocket when he wasn’t looking, and felt himself considerably lighter in more ways than one.

He slept on an empty stomach, letting the dull pain at his wrist lull him to sleep. It wasn’t the first, and wouldn’t be the last time it happened.

* * *

His injuries grew.

He knew he wasn’t being careless at work; the manager would kick him out the second he thought he was fucking around, but the welt at his wrist had grown into a full slash, a cross that leaked through bandages. Another welt had formed on the back of his right hand, and the threadbare gloves he wore made it sting something fierce.

The headaches continued, and Alcee suggested he see a doctor after watching him nearly collapse at the dockyard.

“Sure I will,” Skin had replied, and proceeded to ignore the problem. 

(His pay was halved that week; the manager had noticed the incident.)

* * *

At night he dreamed.

There were shadows reaching for him, demons raking their claws down his back, across his face, leering masks doused by a sickening green light.

He tried to fight them off, but he was too weak; his blows would be parried, and wings battered him until he fell to his knees.

He sobbed in anger and frustrated, and felt every fiber of his being  _burn_  with rage. The green light was scattered, and a voice he didn’t recognize whispered in his ear.

_You must fight them_ , it said, and the rage burned all the while. _They have destroyed you. They mock you. You must never forgive._

* * *

He continued to work, limping through his duties. His gloves, once a washed out grey had turned brown with blood. His side ached as if he’d been stabbed, and more than once he had to have Rene or Alcee or Thomy cover for him as he struggled to catch his breath.

(He choked on blood once, and caught whispers as he made his way home.  _It’s the consumption. Poor thing, won’t be long now._ )

* * *

He couldn’t afford the doctor, but the church was free enough. The bandages he had wrapped around his head and hands and feet were soiled with blood, and he prayed that the priest would have some cure.

He had never been religious before, but his dreams haunted him, as did the crosses on his wrists, the marks on his forehead. 

The church loomed above him, and he felt the rage bubble in his heart as he stepped through the doors.


End file.
